September 12, 2008
September 5, 2008
A world of difference
Meghan recently started 3rd grade. 3rd grade! I am old enough to have a 3rd grader! OK yeah, because, clearly, this is all about me.
No, I'm not stressing about turning 40 in 4 months. Why are you looking at me like that?
Anyway. No one gave me the 3rd grade handbook (actually, her school did give me a handbook, which I read from cover to cover - total pageturner), so I did not realize until this morning that I have been somewhat hampering/stifling her social life. In 3rd grade, your parents do not walk you onto the 3rd grade playground. You walk yourself, foo!
Duh. The signs were there but, because my relationship with Meghan is rather unorthodox, the lightbulb did not appear above my head until today. See, as she gets older, Meghan and I get closer and closer. I know that it's usually the other way around, but Meg's an unusual girl, so this doesn't surprise me at all. We're sorta like The Gilmore Girls: The First Decade. I am quite appreciative of this, and I've worked really hard at getting to this point with her, so I am unabashedly happy about it.
Apparently, so is Meghan. She still wants me to hold her hand on the playground, and hug her goodbye, and stay with her until school starts. But I have received the stink eye from no less than 457 children in grades 3-5. And their body language says, "Uhm. You DO realize you're a parent, right? And you DO realize that we are all ages 8-11, right? And you DO realize that you are totally uncool, right? GET OUT!"
Meg's been attending the same school since Kindergarten. (Man, that school is the absolute shiznit!, but that's another story.) In grades K-2, her classrooms were on the east side of the building, which is quite lovely. There are lots of trees and grass on the east side, and always lots of parents milling about. Parents here, parents there, parents everywhere. But, dude, grades 3-5 are on the west side of the building. Meghan has seemingly graduated from the Will Smith School Of Mainstream Rap/Rap Lite and moved right on over to the Tupac Shakur School of Gangsta. Damn, you think her school would clue the parents in on this kinda crap. Parents need to know this stuff!
On the west side, there are no trees. There is no grass. And there are no parents. No parents!, I am not even kidding. There are always 2 adults present, and they appear to be either teachers or aides, specifically planted there to watch the kids so no one Suspicious Looking comes a-calling. Which I'm sure all the (non-existent) parents appreciate.
But in the place of parents, there are now cliques. And drama. And snippiness. And fashion queens. And boys teasing girls. And running, lots of running. And general immaturity masking itself as maturity, which is how immaturity seems to function in schools, anyway. I get the distinct feeling that middle school is right around the corner, which makes me slightly annoyed and quite worried for Meghan.
Oy. What a world of difference one schoolyear makes.
No, I'm not stressing about turning 40 in 4 months. Why are you looking at me like that?
Anyway. No one gave me the 3rd grade handbook (actually, her school did give me a handbook, which I read from cover to cover - total pageturner), so I did not realize until this morning that I have been somewhat hampering/stifling her social life. In 3rd grade, your parents do not walk you onto the 3rd grade playground. You walk yourself, foo!
Duh. The signs were there but, because my relationship with Meghan is rather unorthodox, the lightbulb did not appear above my head until today. See, as she gets older, Meghan and I get closer and closer. I know that it's usually the other way around, but Meg's an unusual girl, so this doesn't surprise me at all. We're sorta like The Gilmore Girls: The First Decade. I am quite appreciative of this, and I've worked really hard at getting to this point with her, so I am unabashedly happy about it.
Apparently, so is Meghan. She still wants me to hold her hand on the playground, and hug her goodbye, and stay with her until school starts. But I have received the stink eye from no less than 457 children in grades 3-5. And their body language says, "Uhm. You DO realize you're a parent, right? And you DO realize that we are all ages 8-11, right? And you DO realize that you are totally uncool, right? GET OUT!"
Meg's been attending the same school since Kindergarten. (Man, that school is the absolute shiznit!, but that's another story.) In grades K-2, her classrooms were on the east side of the building, which is quite lovely. There are lots of trees and grass on the east side, and always lots of parents milling about. Parents here, parents there, parents everywhere. But, dude, grades 3-5 are on the west side of the building. Meghan has seemingly graduated from the Will Smith School Of Mainstream Rap/Rap Lite and moved right on over to the Tupac Shakur School of Gangsta. Damn, you think her school would clue the parents in on this kinda crap. Parents need to know this stuff!
On the west side, there are no trees. There is no grass. And there are no parents. No parents!, I am not even kidding. There are always 2 adults present, and they appear to be either teachers or aides, specifically planted there to watch the kids so no one Suspicious Looking comes a-calling. Which I'm sure all the (non-existent) parents appreciate.
But in the place of parents, there are now cliques. And drama. And snippiness. And fashion queens. And boys teasing girls. And running, lots of running. And general immaturity masking itself as maturity, which is how immaturity seems to function in schools, anyway. I get the distinct feeling that middle school is right around the corner, which makes me slightly annoyed and quite worried for Meghan.
Oy. What a world of difference one schoolyear makes.
August 15, 2008
Separate Letters to the Edwardses
Dear John Edwards:
First of all, I would just like to say that I totally judge you. I'm sorry to admit that so heartily, but it's true. There's no point in denying it. It's not that I don't understand or empathize with you, because sadly, I have been where you are. It's not fun, it's not pretty, and it's not right. Cheating slowly eats away at your soul unlike anything else I've experienced before. That palpable guilt you feel? That's your conscience, kicking the hell out of your heart.
Since I am a member of the Cheaters' Club, I have absolutely no reason to go all St. Peter on you. While sneaking around on your woman isn't that cool, I really don't care what you do with your penis, as long as it doesn't come into contact with children or barnyard animals. As a voter, I mean, I just don't care. Two consenting adults having sex is just that: two consenting adults having sex. Big whoop, man. In my book, it's not even close to being on the same level as, say, killing millions of Iraqi citizens (and countless numbers of Afghani citizens) and thousands of American troops (and countless numbers of international troops). But I digress.
No no, my problem with you stems from another arena entirely. I think that you are what the folks who frequent Craigslist (including myself) all over the world refer to as a fucktard: someone so truly stupid that they are not to be believed. A fucktard's lack of critical thinking skills can only be described as awe-inspiring.
Dude. Were you not aware that, while you were banging Rielle Hunter, you were running for the highest elected office in this great land of ours? And if not, how is it that you were not aware? Also, were you not aware of the international, widespread pandemic (otherwise known as "The Mainstream Media", via the internet) sure to foil your plot to keep a mistress? I fail to understand this. Please explain. Your Nightline interview didn't do dick in adequately explaining such mind-boggling fucktardishness.
In addition, please cease and desist denying the obvious love child you fathered from your consistent shenanigans with Ms. Hunter. Anyone with half a brain can do the math here. Americans are not as stupid as you apparently think we are. Seriously, you have already screwed any credibility you gained over your years in the Senate and running for public office. You have already caused your wife, children, friends, extended family, and supporters immense and untold amounts pain. So why in fucking hell would you deny that you are this cute little kid's baby daddy? Are you shitting me? Now, you are not only a fucktard, but a douchebag as well.
If Al Franken wasn't running for a Senate seat in Minnesota right now, I'm fairly certain that he would call you to ask you these questions/relay these concerns himself. Maybe Michael Moore will do it in his place. Jon Stewart is probably all over this shit, but I don't have cable, so I don't know. I'm willing to bet money that Keith Olbermann has already busted a blood vessel in his forehead talking about you on Countdown.
Jesus Christ, John. WTF, OMG, LOL all around. Oh, yeah: good job making Obama's chances of getting elected that much harder. You go sit at the Jeremiah Wright Dunce Table, OK?
Spitballs and Hand Grenades,
Steph
-----
Dear Elizabeth Edwards:
Get down with your bad self. Your strength is amazing, and I cannot believe how awesome you are. You rule.
Some people want to paint you as a victim, or an enabler, or a behind-the-scenes power player. I think that you are none of the above. I think you're a mother and a wife who did her best to cope with a really awful situation. The reason that you have earned so much respect during your husband's last presidential campaign is because you stand up for yourself and speak your mind, but you do not try to hurt or impugn anyone else in the process. You will not go quietly into the night, and you will not demure, but you will not start shit unnecessarily. I love that about you, and I love that you keep doing that, and I love that you made a decision to stay with John because you feel that it's best for you and your family. It is your decision, and I respect it. It's your marriage, and your life, and I completely, totally respect that.
Also, I think your husband is insane because I have seen pictures of you back in the day and you were an absolute hottie! No woman, including Rielle, has anything on you, Elizabeth. You are wonderful. You are woman, I hear you roar.
Much Love and Aretha Franklin,
Steph
P.S. As a way of coping, I highly recommend making an Angry Woman's Mix on playlist.com. It could start with "It's a Shame" by Monie Love, have a few Alanis songs, maybe an Ani song or two, and end with Pink's "U + Ur Hand". Just a thought.
First of all, I would just like to say that I totally judge you. I'm sorry to admit that so heartily, but it's true. There's no point in denying it. It's not that I don't understand or empathize with you, because sadly, I have been where you are. It's not fun, it's not pretty, and it's not right. Cheating slowly eats away at your soul unlike anything else I've experienced before. That palpable guilt you feel? That's your conscience, kicking the hell out of your heart.
Since I am a member of the Cheaters' Club, I have absolutely no reason to go all St. Peter on you. While sneaking around on your woman isn't that cool, I really don't care what you do with your penis, as long as it doesn't come into contact with children or barnyard animals. As a voter, I mean, I just don't care. Two consenting adults having sex is just that: two consenting adults having sex. Big whoop, man. In my book, it's not even close to being on the same level as, say, killing millions of Iraqi citizens (and countless numbers of Afghani citizens) and thousands of American troops (and countless numbers of international troops). But I digress.
No no, my problem with you stems from another arena entirely. I think that you are what the folks who frequent Craigslist (including myself) all over the world refer to as a fucktard: someone so truly stupid that they are not to be believed. A fucktard's lack of critical thinking skills can only be described as awe-inspiring.
Dude. Were you not aware that, while you were banging Rielle Hunter, you were running for the highest elected office in this great land of ours? And if not, how is it that you were not aware? Also, were you not aware of the international, widespread pandemic (otherwise known as "The Mainstream Media", via the internet) sure to foil your plot to keep a mistress? I fail to understand this. Please explain. Your Nightline interview didn't do dick in adequately explaining such mind-boggling fucktardishness.
In addition, please cease and desist denying the obvious love child you fathered from your consistent shenanigans with Ms. Hunter. Anyone with half a brain can do the math here. Americans are not as stupid as you apparently think we are. Seriously, you have already screwed any credibility you gained over your years in the Senate and running for public office. You have already caused your wife, children, friends, extended family, and supporters immense and untold amounts pain. So why in fucking hell would you deny that you are this cute little kid's baby daddy? Are you shitting me? Now, you are not only a fucktard, but a douchebag as well.
If Al Franken wasn't running for a Senate seat in Minnesota right now, I'm fairly certain that he would call you to ask you these questions/relay these concerns himself. Maybe Michael Moore will do it in his place. Jon Stewart is probably all over this shit, but I don't have cable, so I don't know. I'm willing to bet money that Keith Olbermann has already busted a blood vessel in his forehead talking about you on Countdown.
Jesus Christ, John. WTF, OMG, LOL all around. Oh, yeah: good job making Obama's chances of getting elected that much harder. You go sit at the Jeremiah Wright Dunce Table, OK?
Spitballs and Hand Grenades,
Steph
-----
Dear Elizabeth Edwards:
Get down with your bad self. Your strength is amazing, and I cannot believe how awesome you are. You rule.
Some people want to paint you as a victim, or an enabler, or a behind-the-scenes power player. I think that you are none of the above. I think you're a mother and a wife who did her best to cope with a really awful situation. The reason that you have earned so much respect during your husband's last presidential campaign is because you stand up for yourself and speak your mind, but you do not try to hurt or impugn anyone else in the process. You will not go quietly into the night, and you will not demure, but you will not start shit unnecessarily. I love that about you, and I love that you keep doing that, and I love that you made a decision to stay with John because you feel that it's best for you and your family. It is your decision, and I respect it. It's your marriage, and your life, and I completely, totally respect that.
Also, I think your husband is insane because I have seen pictures of you back in the day and you were an absolute hottie! No woman, including Rielle, has anything on you, Elizabeth. You are wonderful. You are woman, I hear you roar.
Much Love and Aretha Franklin,
Steph
P.S. As a way of coping, I highly recommend making an Angry Woman's Mix on playlist.com. It could start with "It's a Shame" by Monie Love, have a few Alanis songs, maybe an Ani song or two, and end with Pink's "U + Ur Hand". Just a thought.
July 23, 2008
Kickin' it old school
I hate break ups. I am going to go out on a limb here and say that they are not fun.
Mr. GenY bit the dust. It is fine, which is to say that it's good in the long-term sense, but Jesus H., I am really sick of crying. Oh, the whoa that is my life and stuff.
I keep telling myself that this is normal. I keep telling myself that this is supposed to feel like shit, that it is supposed to feel like my heart's been ripped out, that this too shall pass. That a year and a half spent on some dude (who I knew wasn't emotionally available when I first met him) is a long time, and that it will also take some time for me to heal. To repair the gaping hole in my heart, and other melodramatic sentiments of the like. Blah blah blah, cry me a river, I know.
See, this is why really, really bad love songs are written. Gaping holes in the heart, my friends.
My clan has been duly informed of said break up, and they are prepared. For the 3 a.m. calls, when I really want to call Mr. GenY instead. For the crying and carrying on and the stages of grief. For the gritting of the teeth when, after 3 months, I still have not moved on and they have to tell me that they are ready to strangle me with the (non-existent) cell phone cord if I bring up Mr. GenY's name one more goddamned time. They know that they need to kick my ass, and they know that they have to be gentle with the ass kicking.
Because I really don't want to be in this position again. It was doomed from the start. Age difference, lifestyle difference, maturity difference, and those are just the big ones. My friends know that. So they will have to remind me of what a tool Mr. GenY was, and who cares if he looks exactly like Shia LaBeouf? Big deal! Looks are not everything, they will say. I will sadly agree, and hang my head in shame that I gave some 25-year-old guy all my power. They will speak of how amazing I am, and that I deserve much better, but all I will be able to think about (for awhile, anyway) is how his eyes sparkled when he talked about those obscene Gangland shows. And how he made the cutest smooching sounds to his dog when we were on the phone. And how he would just randomly say, "Yeah", whenever there was a lull in the conversation. And how he once called Barack Obama a dicksneeze, just so I would punch him.
Love sucks.
I heart him. I wish I didn't, but I really, truly do. I can't just turn these fucking feelings off, no matter what my head says. My head is ready to beat my heart's ass the next time it so much as feels a mushy, positive feeling for Mr. GenY. I'm kickin' it old school, the hard way, and I hate it. I HATE it! But I don't want to become one of those bitter women who are rude to cashiers just because they are having a bad day. Damn, in 2008, is there any hope left? Is there any love anymore? Is there such a thing as doing right by someone else? Am I the only one out there who still believes in integrity, in honesty, in trust? Am I too old to be dating anyone? Or should I just go buy some cats and call it a day?
My landlord won't let me have cats, anyway, so I can't even do that. I guess my only option is to get through this, to face the blinding pain, and to come out of it that much stronger and that much more hopeful. I know that time, she is a bitch. She will move very, very slowly over the next few months, making this totally agonizing. What a cheerful thought.
Oy. Almost makes me want to become a lesbian. Again.
Mr. GenY bit the dust. It is fine, which is to say that it's good in the long-term sense, but Jesus H., I am really sick of crying. Oh, the whoa that is my life and stuff.
I keep telling myself that this is normal. I keep telling myself that this is supposed to feel like shit, that it is supposed to feel like my heart's been ripped out, that this too shall pass. That a year and a half spent on some dude (who I knew wasn't emotionally available when I first met him) is a long time, and that it will also take some time for me to heal. To repair the gaping hole in my heart, and other melodramatic sentiments of the like. Blah blah blah, cry me a river, I know.
See, this is why really, really bad love songs are written. Gaping holes in the heart, my friends.
My clan has been duly informed of said break up, and they are prepared. For the 3 a.m. calls, when I really want to call Mr. GenY instead. For the crying and carrying on and the stages of grief. For the gritting of the teeth when, after 3 months, I still have not moved on and they have to tell me that they are ready to strangle me with the (non-existent) cell phone cord if I bring up Mr. GenY's name one more goddamned time. They know that they need to kick my ass, and they know that they have to be gentle with the ass kicking.
Because I really don't want to be in this position again. It was doomed from the start. Age difference, lifestyle difference, maturity difference, and those are just the big ones. My friends know that. So they will have to remind me of what a tool Mr. GenY was, and who cares if he looks exactly like Shia LaBeouf? Big deal! Looks are not everything, they will say. I will sadly agree, and hang my head in shame that I gave some 25-year-old guy all my power. They will speak of how amazing I am, and that I deserve much better, but all I will be able to think about (for awhile, anyway) is how his eyes sparkled when he talked about those obscene Gangland shows. And how he made the cutest smooching sounds to his dog when we were on the phone. And how he would just randomly say, "Yeah", whenever there was a lull in the conversation. And how he once called Barack Obama a dicksneeze, just so I would punch him.
Love sucks.
I heart him. I wish I didn't, but I really, truly do. I can't just turn these fucking feelings off, no matter what my head says. My head is ready to beat my heart's ass the next time it so much as feels a mushy, positive feeling for Mr. GenY. I'm kickin' it old school, the hard way, and I hate it. I HATE it! But I don't want to become one of those bitter women who are rude to cashiers just because they are having a bad day. Damn, in 2008, is there any hope left? Is there any love anymore? Is there such a thing as doing right by someone else? Am I the only one out there who still believes in integrity, in honesty, in trust? Am I too old to be dating anyone? Or should I just go buy some cats and call it a day?
My landlord won't let me have cats, anyway, so I can't even do that. I guess my only option is to get through this, to face the blinding pain, and to come out of it that much stronger and that much more hopeful. I know that time, she is a bitch. She will move very, very slowly over the next few months, making this totally agonizing. What a cheerful thought.
Oy. Almost makes me want to become a lesbian. Again.
July 9, 2008
Smackdown! GenX vs. GenY
An Open Letter to the Youths of Today Who Utilize MySpace:
Look kids, I know that your internet image is very important to you. I get that you cruise around on MySpace like I used to cruise around in cars. To look cool. And to find boys. I totally understand that the bowels of the World Wide Web are 2008's stomping/training grounds. I am not without a smidgen of sympathy for you, however small.
But quite frankly, I seem to be up on this whole 2008 business more than some of y'all. And I am fucking 39-years-old! It is pitiful that I have more game than many of you do, truly it is. Because back when I was your age, 39 did not understand a goddamned thing. 39 was outdated and embarrassing. Sadly, I have just recently become aware of this because I am doing some marketing work on MySpace for a friend of mine. Being forced to look at your pages is cringe-worthy, for the following various and sundry reasons:
1) Goth is out. Goth has been out for a very, very long time. Even Trent Reznor looks kept and clean these days.
2) 1995 graphic displays do nothing but make you appear out of touch and weird (and not in the good way). Also, my computer heaves and sputters at these graphics, which makes me fondly recall old school dialup.
3) Saying shit like "I am who I am! Love me or hate me!" will surely make most people hate you. Good call.
4) I don't need to see a picture of you puking on some club floor, dude.
5) I don't need to see every fucking picture you have ever taken, dude.
6) Finding IMDB photos for every single movie you enjoy seems like a complete waste of time to me, but that might just be 39 talking.
7) While I enjoy looking at/ogling over David Beckham as much as the next person (or anyone with eyes, really), 30 pictures? Really? 30?! (I counted, Y. I'm keeping track of your transgressions here.)
8) Internet quizzes are, like, so totally FUN! Here! Let me put ALL of them on my MySpace page!
9) Being in love is awesome. I am in full agreement with you on this. Mentioning your boyfriend/girlfriend 30 times on your page is not.
10) This sounds like a gimme, but seriously: why would you think I could read your page if your background is light blue and your font is light blue? Are you trying to singe retinas or something?
Y, you should know that I am very fond of you, in a general sense. We tend to get along smashingly well, probably because my maturity level usually hovers at around 17-18 on my good days. Some of my best friends belong to you, as does my semi-boyfriend. But my peeps seem to understand a concept that you do not, and it is very simple.
Sometimes, Y, less is more. Overkill is boring and tired. Please stop.
Forever Yours,
GenX
Look kids, I know that your internet image is very important to you. I get that you cruise around on MySpace like I used to cruise around in cars. To look cool. And to find boys. I totally understand that the bowels of the World Wide Web are 2008's stomping/training grounds. I am not without a smidgen of sympathy for you, however small.
But quite frankly, I seem to be up on this whole 2008 business more than some of y'all. And I am fucking 39-years-old! It is pitiful that I have more game than many of you do, truly it is. Because back when I was your age, 39 did not understand a goddamned thing. 39 was outdated and embarrassing. Sadly, I have just recently become aware of this because I am doing some marketing work on MySpace for a friend of mine. Being forced to look at your pages is cringe-worthy, for the following various and sundry reasons:
1) Goth is out. Goth has been out for a very, very long time. Even Trent Reznor looks kept and clean these days.
2) 1995 graphic displays do nothing but make you appear out of touch and weird (and not in the good way). Also, my computer heaves and sputters at these graphics, which makes me fondly recall old school dialup.
3) Saying shit like "I am who I am! Love me or hate me!" will surely make most people hate you. Good call.
4) I don't need to see a picture of you puking on some club floor, dude.
5) I don't need to see every fucking picture you have ever taken, dude.
6) Finding IMDB photos for every single movie you enjoy seems like a complete waste of time to me, but that might just be 39 talking.
7) While I enjoy looking at/ogling over David Beckham as much as the next person (or anyone with eyes, really), 30 pictures? Really? 30?! (I counted, Y. I'm keeping track of your transgressions here.)
8) Internet quizzes are, like, so totally FUN! Here! Let me put ALL of them on my MySpace page!
9) Being in love is awesome. I am in full agreement with you on this. Mentioning your boyfriend/girlfriend 30 times on your page is not.
10) This sounds like a gimme, but seriously: why would you think I could read your page if your background is light blue and your font is light blue? Are you trying to singe retinas or something?
Y, you should know that I am very fond of you, in a general sense. We tend to get along smashingly well, probably because my maturity level usually hovers at around 17-18 on my good days. Some of my best friends belong to you, as does my semi-boyfriend. But my peeps seem to understand a concept that you do not, and it is very simple.
Sometimes, Y, less is more. Overkill is boring and tired. Please stop.
Forever Yours,
GenX
July 3, 2008
Completely sober and tripping on acid
This video signifies why I love this show. This group number was choreographed by the legendary, Emmy-winning Mia Michaels. The YouTube video comment says, and I quote:
"I drop some acid before I watched this or did Mia just turn up the trippy?"
It is fucking disturbing. In a really weird, make-you-think kinda way.
"I drop some acid before I watched this or did Mia just turn up the trippy?"
It is fucking disturbing. In a really weird, make-you-think kinda way.
July 1, 2008
ohmyGOD!
Dear Senator Obama:
Ya know, I keep pretty damn current with all the hot and sweaty political news. I am nothing if not disgustingly informed, although some might argue that the word "informed" could easily be replaced with the word "obsessed". (Sadly, those people would not be wrong.) I usually check progressive websites many times per day, often to chuckle at some asinine thing John McCain said at a VFW fundraiser in BFE, Alabama. Then I read your response to his asinine comment, and I sigh and smile and swoon, and then I shout, "Atta boy, Barack! Atta boy!" And then you and I transport back in time to the 1950s to catch a double header at Wrigley Field, and eat hot dogs, but only because tofu dogs haven't been invented yet.
But I have spent the past two weeks immersed in a very emotional and horrible medical situation that required immediate attention. So please forgive me for the belated questioning: DUDE! WHAT THE FUCKING SHIT?!
Who the hell are you? Has a soul-sucking alien invaded your body? Did you and Hillary Clinton actually figure out the physics required to become one person? Or are you sick, too, and maybe have a case of Cheney on the brain? What is this, with the voting of the FISA bill? And the personal attack on General Wesley Clark? And the sudden devotion to Bush's wonderful faith-based initiatives? And the criticizing of MoveOn? And all of the other boneheaded crap you've said and done in the past two weeks? Does Michelle know about all of this bullshit? Where's Michelle?! I'M TELLING MICHELLE!
ohmyGOD, I'm wondering now if I wasn't completely wrong about you. I can't even believe I am saying/writing these words! I totally believed in you, man! Every cynical person I've talked with about politics, for the past 7 months at least, appears to have been right. I wanna be right! I don't want those clowns to be right! Because they were all (in sweet, soothing, condescending tones), "He's going to play the liberal card until the general election starts. And then he's going to move to the center, just like Al did, and John did. He is not the rock star that you think he is, Steph." And I was all, "You are so wrong! Ha ha ha, I laugh at you. Wrong! This guy is the real deal! Why do you have to be so negative about everything?" And then I would babble about positive energy and goodness and light, and What the &*%$# Do We Know? would somehow seep its hippie way into the conversation, so that I could in turn look down on them and, thusly, feel superior. As an American, one upsmanship is totally my right.
Barack, sweetie, let me spell this out for you: stop listening to the fools who keep telling you to "Move to the right! Move to the right!" You do not need them, because they could not be more wrong. How can you not see this? How can you not know this? It didn't work for Al Gore or John Kerry, and it ain't gonna work for you. (OK, technically, it did work for Al Gore, but that's another story.) In general, Democrats are really, super sick and tired of members of Congress who appear to be watered-down versions of Republicans. We do not need another pussy! We have enough pussies as elected officials! We do not need another idiotic Democratic candidate for president who is masquerading as a toned-down Republican. Next thing I know, you'll be chilling at NASCAR events and talking smack about gay marriage.
I am your base, Senator Obama. I feel betrayed and somewhat unhinged, but that could just be the aforementioned medical issue. But I really feel deceived by you. I am no longer sure that I can trust you. And you're going to have to win back that trust, sir. From what I gather, your base is pissed as fucking hell about all of this. I am one of those people, one of those funtastic "netroots" folks. Actually, this is one lesson that you should have learned from George W. Bush: do. not. piss. off. your. base. Ever. I am the bread to your butter, the cake to your ice cream, and the tequilla to your lime. We compliment each other, we go well together, and we look awesome in both ebony and ivory. C'mon, man. Don't wreck this Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney moment in time. And don't make me consider voting for Ralph Nader, or not voting at all, especially after my diatribe to Hillary supporters several weeks ago. I hate eating crow, because it tastes like total shit.
I'm sad. I'm heartbroken. I thought that what we had was real. How could you do this to me? Please tell me that you love me. Please tell me that this is all a big misunderstanding.
Yours,
Steph
Ya know, I keep pretty damn current with all the hot and sweaty political news. I am nothing if not disgustingly informed, although some might argue that the word "informed" could easily be replaced with the word "obsessed". (Sadly, those people would not be wrong.) I usually check progressive websites many times per day, often to chuckle at some asinine thing John McCain said at a VFW fundraiser in BFE, Alabama. Then I read your response to his asinine comment, and I sigh and smile and swoon, and then I shout, "Atta boy, Barack! Atta boy!" And then you and I transport back in time to the 1950s to catch a double header at Wrigley Field, and eat hot dogs, but only because tofu dogs haven't been invented yet.
But I have spent the past two weeks immersed in a very emotional and horrible medical situation that required immediate attention. So please forgive me for the belated questioning: DUDE! WHAT THE FUCKING SHIT?!
Who the hell are you? Has a soul-sucking alien invaded your body? Did you and Hillary Clinton actually figure out the physics required to become one person? Or are you sick, too, and maybe have a case of Cheney on the brain? What is this, with the voting of the FISA bill? And the personal attack on General Wesley Clark? And the sudden devotion to Bush's wonderful faith-based initiatives? And the criticizing of MoveOn? And all of the other boneheaded crap you've said and done in the past two weeks? Does Michelle know about all of this bullshit? Where's Michelle?! I'M TELLING MICHELLE!
ohmyGOD, I'm wondering now if I wasn't completely wrong about you. I can't even believe I am saying/writing these words! I totally believed in you, man! Every cynical person I've talked with about politics, for the past 7 months at least, appears to have been right. I wanna be right! I don't want those clowns to be right! Because they were all (in sweet, soothing, condescending tones), "He's going to play the liberal card until the general election starts. And then he's going to move to the center, just like Al did, and John did. He is not the rock star that you think he is, Steph." And I was all, "You are so wrong! Ha ha ha, I laugh at you. Wrong! This guy is the real deal! Why do you have to be so negative about everything?" And then I would babble about positive energy and goodness and light, and What the &*%$# Do We Know? would somehow seep its hippie way into the conversation, so that I could in turn look down on them and, thusly, feel superior. As an American, one upsmanship is totally my right.
Barack, sweetie, let me spell this out for you: stop listening to the fools who keep telling you to "Move to the right! Move to the right!" You do not need them, because they could not be more wrong. How can you not see this? How can you not know this? It didn't work for Al Gore or John Kerry, and it ain't gonna work for you. (OK, technically, it did work for Al Gore, but that's another story.) In general, Democrats are really, super sick and tired of members of Congress who appear to be watered-down versions of Republicans. We do not need another pussy! We have enough pussies as elected officials! We do not need another idiotic Democratic candidate for president who is masquerading as a toned-down Republican. Next thing I know, you'll be chilling at NASCAR events and talking smack about gay marriage.
I am your base, Senator Obama. I feel betrayed and somewhat unhinged, but that could just be the aforementioned medical issue. But I really feel deceived by you. I am no longer sure that I can trust you. And you're going to have to win back that trust, sir. From what I gather, your base is pissed as fucking hell about all of this. I am one of those people, one of those funtastic "netroots" folks. Actually, this is one lesson that you should have learned from George W. Bush: do. not. piss. off. your. base. Ever. I am the bread to your butter, the cake to your ice cream, and the tequilla to your lime. We compliment each other, we go well together, and we look awesome in both ebony and ivory. C'mon, man. Don't wreck this Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney moment in time. And don't make me consider voting for Ralph Nader, or not voting at all, especially after my diatribe to Hillary supporters several weeks ago. I hate eating crow, because it tastes like total shit.
I'm sad. I'm heartbroken. I thought that what we had was real. How could you do this to me? Please tell me that you love me. Please tell me that this is all a big misunderstanding.
Yours,
Steph
June 16, 2008
The Church of Health
Quite frankly, I just didn't see this coming. I am still in shock about it. As it turns out, my very detailed, very thorough Course of Severe Action (CSA) has been going really, super well. Seriously. In particular, my diet and exercise plan is, in fact, working! I am losing poundage on a moment-by-moment basis! I have lost at least 5 pounds already! CHECK OUT MY ASS, BABY!
It is simply not like me to make a plan and then stick with it. I am infamous for my half-hearted attempts at trying to do somesuch shit, and then reneging half way through, only to never finish said shit. I could name a few of these momentous failures for you, but then my sheer ineptitude would overwhelm me and I'd cry.
So color me surprised, but not only do I enjoy working out now, but I look forward to it! I worked out 5 times last week, and 5 times the week before that! I have no clue where the real Steph has gone, but this imposter feels pretty good because of all those friggin' endorphins. They rule! Endorphins RULE! I wish I could go to the store and buy them for people, in bulk, like at Costco. I would then give them away as gifts, for extra-special occasions, such as an excellent flossing technique. Also, I would buy them for Mir.
In case you are interested, my methods are fairly simple and they are designed for someone who is on a budget (read: flat broke). First of all, I am one of those nutty people who can eat the same exact things over and over and over again. Until I get completely sick of them, which usually takes 3 weeks or so. It's like I fall in love with a certain food, we have a fling, and then I find out that the broccoli has been cheating on me with the carrots, so I toss that badass broccoli right out the window. (Or just back in the veggie tray - whichever.) Right now, I am having multiple love affairs with oranges, apples, grapes, watermelon, yogurt, and sugar snap peas. They are all aware that I am unfaithful to each and everyone of them. For meals, I just pare down what I would normally eat into smaller portions. I don't deny myself any of the food that I crave, because then, I just want it that much more. I'll take 2 bites out of a candy bar instead of eating the entire bar, which I'd call progress. I have stopped drinking Mt. Dew and Pepsi altogether (which was my lifeblood beforehand), and I now subsist on water and Coke Zero. For those of you who hate diet soda, like me, Coke Zero is THE BOMB! It's a completely tolerable, (duh) zero-calorie drink. BOOYAH!
I cannot afford a gym membership, so thank the Big Guy in the Sky that I live in Colorado, because it's sunny some 300 days of the year here. I walk for 45 minutes , and I could not do this without the motivation provided to me by my kickass tunes, which blare in my ears via headphones and my daughter's hijacked Barbie mp3 player. I make sure I walk fast enough to break a sweat, and when I get home, I do 5 minutes of abdominal crunches and 5 minutes of pear-lifting. Yes, that's right, pear-lifting. I had 2-pound weights floating around here at some point, but I cannot find them and I cannot be bothered to scour the house in search of them. So, instead, I lift 2 cans of 1-pound pears and call it good. I wasn't so sure that this method would work but, hey, whaddya know! My flabby upper arms are starting to get some tone.
The emotional part is always the trickiest for me, probably because I have the willpower of a gnat. No, what's smaller than a gnat? An amoeba. Yeah, me and the amoebas, we do lunch sometimes. But I wrote down a few dorky affirmations to say on a daily basis, and 2 of them keep roaming around my head all the time now. They help me to keep working out and keep dieting, but they also help me to do a lot of other life bullshit. These phrases are:
"No one can make you feel inferior without your consent." - Eleanor Roosevelt
"Timing is everything." - Ihavenoclue
Ya know, people in diet articles and health-nut books are always saying stupid crap like, "I can't believe how much better I feel about myself!" But guess what, hippie chicks? It's fucking TRUE! Even for a bitter, semi-hardened, almost 40-something like me. I'm happier, I have more energy, I'm more productive, and I sleep better. Also, I have been known these days to actually crack a smile and, on occasion, even laugh. That's just crazy talk!
OK, I gotta go now. I had BK for lunch (first fast food in 3 weeks!), and I'm feeling the extreme need to feel the burn. FEEL THE BURN, BABY!
Is there some kind of 12-step program for endorphin addiction?
It is simply not like me to make a plan and then stick with it. I am infamous for my half-hearted attempts at trying to do somesuch shit, and then reneging half way through, only to never finish said shit. I could name a few of these momentous failures for you, but then my sheer ineptitude would overwhelm me and I'd cry.
So color me surprised, but not only do I enjoy working out now, but I look forward to it! I worked out 5 times last week, and 5 times the week before that! I have no clue where the real Steph has gone, but this imposter feels pretty good because of all those friggin' endorphins. They rule! Endorphins RULE! I wish I could go to the store and buy them for people, in bulk, like at Costco. I would then give them away as gifts, for extra-special occasions, such as an excellent flossing technique. Also, I would buy them for Mir.
In case you are interested, my methods are fairly simple and they are designed for someone who is on a budget (read: flat broke). First of all, I am one of those nutty people who can eat the same exact things over and over and over again. Until I get completely sick of them, which usually takes 3 weeks or so. It's like I fall in love with a certain food, we have a fling, and then I find out that the broccoli has been cheating on me with the carrots, so I toss that badass broccoli right out the window. (Or just back in the veggie tray - whichever.) Right now, I am having multiple love affairs with oranges, apples, grapes, watermelon, yogurt, and sugar snap peas. They are all aware that I am unfaithful to each and everyone of them. For meals, I just pare down what I would normally eat into smaller portions. I don't deny myself any of the food that I crave, because then, I just want it that much more. I'll take 2 bites out of a candy bar instead of eating the entire bar, which I'd call progress. I have stopped drinking Mt. Dew and Pepsi altogether (which was my lifeblood beforehand), and I now subsist on water and Coke Zero. For those of you who hate diet soda, like me, Coke Zero is THE BOMB! It's a completely tolerable, (duh) zero-calorie drink. BOOYAH!
I cannot afford a gym membership, so thank the Big Guy in the Sky that I live in Colorado, because it's sunny some 300 days of the year here. I walk for 45 minutes , and I could not do this without the motivation provided to me by my kickass tunes, which blare in my ears via headphones and my daughter's hijacked Barbie mp3 player. I make sure I walk fast enough to break a sweat, and when I get home, I do 5 minutes of abdominal crunches and 5 minutes of pear-lifting. Yes, that's right, pear-lifting. I had 2-pound weights floating around here at some point, but I cannot find them and I cannot be bothered to scour the house in search of them. So, instead, I lift 2 cans of 1-pound pears and call it good. I wasn't so sure that this method would work but, hey, whaddya know! My flabby upper arms are starting to get some tone.
The emotional part is always the trickiest for me, probably because I have the willpower of a gnat. No, what's smaller than a gnat? An amoeba. Yeah, me and the amoebas, we do lunch sometimes. But I wrote down a few dorky affirmations to say on a daily basis, and 2 of them keep roaming around my head all the time now. They help me to keep working out and keep dieting, but they also help me to do a lot of other life bullshit. These phrases are:
"No one can make you feel inferior without your consent." - Eleanor Roosevelt
"Timing is everything." - Ihavenoclue
Ya know, people in diet articles and health-nut books are always saying stupid crap like, "I can't believe how much better I feel about myself!" But guess what, hippie chicks? It's fucking TRUE! Even for a bitter, semi-hardened, almost 40-something like me. I'm happier, I have more energy, I'm more productive, and I sleep better. Also, I have been known these days to actually crack a smile and, on occasion, even laugh. That's just crazy talk!
OK, I gotta go now. I had BK for lunch (first fast food in 3 weeks!), and I'm feeling the extreme need to feel the burn. FEEL THE BURN, BABY!
Is there some kind of 12-step program for endorphin addiction?
Change is bad! Change is bad!
Meghan and I are in the grocery store on Saturday afternoon. It is extremely crowded, and we are finally headed towards the registers.
Me (eyeing the new Harlan Coben book, lustily): Ooohhh, look!
Meghan: What, Mom? Do you like that book or something?
Me: It's a new book by one of my favorite authors. He's great, but you probably wouldn't like him. Boring, grown-up stuff.
Meghan (incredulous): Wait, he's your FAVORITE author?!
Me: Well, he's one of 'em. Why?
Meghan (very loudly and very poutily): I thought that JUDY BLUME was your favorite author! You told me that SHE was your favorite author!
Me (smiling apologetically to the woman standing to the left of us, who is looking at Meghan and grinning): Back in the day, huh? (She nods, smiles, and turns back to looking at an Al Gore book.)
Meghan: I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS!
Me: Honey, I still love Judy Blume! She was my favorite author when I was a kid. It's just that, when I was a kid, I read kid books. Now that I'm an adult, I read adult books. Does that make sense?
Meghan (sighing): Yeah, I guess. But I want you to like Judy Blume THE BEST!
Me: Meghan, there's more to life than Superfudge.
Me (eyeing the new Harlan Coben book, lustily): Ooohhh, look!
Meghan: What, Mom? Do you like that book or something?
Me: It's a new book by one of my favorite authors. He's great, but you probably wouldn't like him. Boring, grown-up stuff.
Meghan (incredulous): Wait, he's your FAVORITE author?!
Me: Well, he's one of 'em. Why?
Meghan (very loudly and very poutily): I thought that JUDY BLUME was your favorite author! You told me that SHE was your favorite author!
Me (smiling apologetically to the woman standing to the left of us, who is looking at Meghan and grinning): Back in the day, huh? (She nods, smiles, and turns back to looking at an Al Gore book.)
Meghan: I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS!
Me: Honey, I still love Judy Blume! She was my favorite author when I was a kid. It's just that, when I was a kid, I read kid books. Now that I'm an adult, I read adult books. Does that make sense?
Meghan (sighing): Yeah, I guess. But I want you to like Judy Blume THE BEST!
Me: Meghan, there's more to life than Superfudge.
June 7, 2008
To All Hillary Clinton Supporters
Dear Fans of Mrs. Clinton:
Sometimes, I totally get where you are coming from. I think Chris Matthews is a putz, too. (Frankly, I am suspicious of people who like him in the first place.) The mainstream American media have been unduly hard on Hillary. They have this unabashed hatred for her that borders on something pathological, and it can be downright scary. The misogyny is everywhere, and you'd have to be an idiot not to see it. As a feminist, I am offended both for Hillary and for my gender. Tell me, yet again, why it matters so much that she doesn't have a penis? I will never understand this. And thanks to the truly brutal primary race between Hillary and Barack, I have almost zero respect for just about every male talking head on TV. If you were to rattle off their names in front of me, I would tell you about some perceived slight they stupidly uttered as evidence of their dislike of Hillary. And my dislike of them. And then steam would come out of my ears, I would grow horns and fangs, and breathe fire.
Ya know, back in the day, I loved Hillary. I was a mouthy 23-year-old the first time I saw her on television, and I thought, "Now there's a real woman!" She was strong and intelligent and supportive and thoughtful, and I wanted to be just like her. I remember the feeling I got when she asserted her now-famous "baking cookies" remark. I was all, "FUCK yeah! You go, girl!" I cannot recall any famous woman before her time who had such a profound affect on my life personally. I lived in Tennessee for three years during Bill Clinton's presidency, and while most of the folks in my age group detested her, I defended her at every turn and told them all that she was my idol. I wanted to be just like her. And it was true, then.
And then something happened. Politics happened. When she and Bill left the White House and moved to New York, I remember being confused and kinda pissed about some of the stuff she was saying during her first Senate race. The woman who I thought would never pander was, well, pandering. I get that every politician has to tow the line at some point, and make promises they have no intention of keeping just to get elected, but a lot of what she talked about went against the very principles of who I thought she was as a person. It freaked me out. In short order, it became clear to me: Hillary was never the leftist I thought she was. She was a centrist. Since I'm a proud lefty, this disappointed me and made me wonder how I'd been wrong all these years.
Once Hillary was elected to the Senate, I kept close track of her. Her early voting record made me throw up in my mouth a little bit. And then 9/11 hit, and the United States had a "WTF?!?" moment. For a good 3-4 years, our collective head was shoved quite firmly up our ass. But when she voted for the Iraq war, my time on Hillary's side came to a screeching halt. That was a deal-breaker for me. This woman who, for a long period in my life, was the epitome of feminism and progressive issues, fell from grace in my eyes. I think the reason that it was so gravely disappointing for me was because I really, truly believed in Hillary. And while there were very few senators who actually had the chutzpah to vote their conscience with regards to Iraq, I thought she would be one of them. At that moment, Hillary instantaneously morphed from beloved national figure to spineless hawk in the chaos that is my mind.
In the wide gap between 9/11 and the 2004 presidential election, I found something that I rely on to this day: alternative media. Thank you, oh thank you, internet! I no longer watch/listen to/have much regard for the mainstream media (referred to as "MSM" by alternative bloggers, independent papers, and international media alike) in this country and, as a direct result of getting information from other sources, I have since pieced together backstory about Hillary Clinton that sometimes makes me wince. It was quite disheartening at first, but it is what it is. Google is your friend, fellow Democrats, as is Salon, Common Dreams, The Huffington Post, etc. Anyway, my point is that I no longer have the '92 version/vision of Hillary Clinton roaming around my head.
I never understood John Kerry's appeal when he ran for Prez in '04. I was all, "Howard Dean! Howard Dean!", but then the MSM simply decided that Howard's speaking voice was a little too New England for them, and they quickly put an end to his race. But, ya know, what's the alternative here? That same fucking White House monkey for another 4 years? No, thank you. So I voted for Kerry. I was kinda mad about it, but I did it.
I distinctly remember the flavor of the '04 election: THIS IS OUR LAST CHANCE! LET'S NOT BLOW IT, DEMOCRATS! All of these celebrities were stumping for John Kerry because 4 more years of Bush seemed absolutely unthinkable then. We were all biting our nails and seething with the insistence of change. I recall that we were pretty nervous because, no matter how many of us liberals were shouting from the rafters about an illegal war and civil liberties being a thing of the past, the tide had not yet turned within America in general. The tide was still in George W. Bush's favor. The MSM was still falling in line behind him, and so were many of the folks of this insane, whacked-out country.
Of course, we all know what happened next, Scott McClellan. 3 1/2 more years of Dubya have crippled the United States beyond anything most of us could imagine. The reality of our horrible situation is almost too much to bear, at least for me. The fall of Rome has begun, and I think we would all be hard-pressed to find one single, solitary person who still believes that all is well in the land of Oz. Bush supporters could probably lie to themselves about the state of "the world's last remaining superpower" for quite awhile, but during the past year, it seems that the country has finally woken up. You can't go a day or two right now without hearing about some ultra-damning revelation, book, admission, article, etc. trashing Bush Co. For those of us not under the influence of the MSM, it is extremely liberating, albeit almost laughable and, sadly, concerningly belated. I just saw a headline yesterday on Yahoo! that said something like, "Report says White House manufactured Iraq intel". I thought, "Huh. Well, I'm so glad you finally figured that out! Welcome to the party! But, alas, you're 6 years too late, guys. I don't think we can bring back the millions of Iraqis we've killed, much less our own soldiers. Way to be on the ball there."
The pendulum is swinging our way. The tide is turning, but in our favor. This country finally feels alive again, and probably for the first time since 9/11. But I am really, really pissed off that it's taken everyone so long to catch up. Where the fuck have the rest of you been, ya know? We totally needed you, MSM! We totally needed you, doormat Democrats in Congress! We totally needed you, yes YOU, true Republicans!
But, Hillary supporters, you already know this. You totally know this! You've probably known it for years, just like me. So, alternative media or not, you Clintonistas are far from stupid. We're all Democrats here; we party like it's 1999! You are not part of the them in which I speak.
Unless you are now planning on voting for John McCain, simply because Hillary Clinton lost in the primaries. Because then you are exactly the them of which I speak.
OK, cough it up, hippie. Give me your pipe, your bong, your needle, and your rolled-up dollar bill, you filthy Democrat. I don't need to remind you not to piss in the goddamned Kool Aid, do I? Websites have been formed, letters sent, protests waged, and all in the name of bringing to life an ultra-fun, Democrat-led Anti-Barack Obama Movement. Fine. Hate him with a fiery vengeance, if you want. Blame Obama supporters for hating on Clinton supporters, blah blah blah. This is a circular argument that will illicit no sympathy from me, an Obama supporter, who is sick and tired of hearing bullshit spewed from the Clinton camp about Obama. To say that the Democrats are deeply divided is way too obvious. That's not the main focus of this letter.
The focus is thus: DO NOT PISS IN THE GODDAMNED KOOL AID! I don't know how you need to spank your inner moppet in order to get over the loss of Hillary Clinton not becoming the first female Democrat ever to challenge a Republican for the (sometimes, although not lately, esteemed) job of President of the United States of America. But just spank that inner moppet, OK? Spank away, Spanky! You have until November, which seems like ages away. I will help you in any way I can, although I won't do anything disgusting or dishonest. Or anything having to do with variations on the word "spank".
And don't vote for McCain. Please. PLEASE! We need you! Don't be that stupid! My 7-year-old doesn't get what she wants sometimes, and drama ensues only when she feels like employing it. But other times, she handles it like a champ and keeps right on truckin'. Or, in her case, making a very long caravan with her Polly Pocket dolls.
Sometimes she grumbles, but grudgingly gives in and does it anyway.
Think John Kerry. Get a mental image of him right now. Remember how long it took him to respond after he'd been Swift Boated. Did you like that dude? Yeah? Me neither. But we voted for him because we had to. If you can take down your anger several notches from rage to grumbling, that's all you need to do.
McCain is a complete asshole. Voting for him is the equivalent of putting an ex-boyfriend's naked picture up on MySpace or Craigslist. Why would you do that, except for revenge? Which, by the way, reflects very badly on you and your character. It's just not who you want to be, fellow Democrat. And I know so because you are a Democrat. We want the same things! Truth, justice, and the American way! Also, healthcare for all would be nice.
I saw Hillary's concession speech on CNN a little while ago. I was impressed, for what seems like the thousandth time, by her strength. She was gracious. She was feisty. And she asked her supporters to throw their weight behind Barack now that she's out of the race. The crowd, in equal parts, applauded and booed. It was a cringe-worthy moment.
So, to those of you who applauded, thank you! You rock 'n roll, and me and Prince want your address so we can come celebrate what is sure to be a massive failure by the Republican Hate Machine come November. We will throw confetti and drink champagne and dance the night away, baby.
And to those of you who booed: I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry that the press made a mockery of your woman, and I know that I would feel the exact same way if my candidate of choice had lost. I am not saying that to be condescending or mean, or to hurt you. I am saying that because it's true. Like millions of Americans, I feel like there is simply too much at stake in the upcoming presidential election to really wrap my mind around. We only have one more shot, peeps, and if we get it wrong, we are going down. Fast. To hell in a handbasket. And yes, I honestly believe that. I'm sure most of you do, too.
Please take all the time you need, but just make sure you spank your inner moppet by the first week of November. Bring your questions and concerns to the table, and I know that my dude will answer them, because he needs you. We need you. John McBush knows this, too, and he's going to try to bring as many of you as he can over to The Dark Side. Even though Darth Vader looked really cool in black, Obi-Wan Kenobi won in the end.
Use the force, Luke! You can totally do this. Even if you need to grumble.
Sometimes, I totally get where you are coming from. I think Chris Matthews is a putz, too. (Frankly, I am suspicious of people who like him in the first place.) The mainstream American media have been unduly hard on Hillary. They have this unabashed hatred for her that borders on something pathological, and it can be downright scary. The misogyny is everywhere, and you'd have to be an idiot not to see it. As a feminist, I am offended both for Hillary and for my gender. Tell me, yet again, why it matters so much that she doesn't have a penis? I will never understand this. And thanks to the truly brutal primary race between Hillary and Barack, I have almost zero respect for just about every male talking head on TV. If you were to rattle off their names in front of me, I would tell you about some perceived slight they stupidly uttered as evidence of their dislike of Hillary. And my dislike of them. And then steam would come out of my ears, I would grow horns and fangs, and breathe fire.
Ya know, back in the day, I loved Hillary. I was a mouthy 23-year-old the first time I saw her on television, and I thought, "Now there's a real woman!" She was strong and intelligent and supportive and thoughtful, and I wanted to be just like her. I remember the feeling I got when she asserted her now-famous "baking cookies" remark. I was all, "FUCK yeah! You go, girl!" I cannot recall any famous woman before her time who had such a profound affect on my life personally. I lived in Tennessee for three years during Bill Clinton's presidency, and while most of the folks in my age group detested her, I defended her at every turn and told them all that she was my idol. I wanted to be just like her. And it was true, then.
And then something happened. Politics happened. When she and Bill left the White House and moved to New York, I remember being confused and kinda pissed about some of the stuff she was saying during her first Senate race. The woman who I thought would never pander was, well, pandering. I get that every politician has to tow the line at some point, and make promises they have no intention of keeping just to get elected, but a lot of what she talked about went against the very principles of who I thought she was as a person. It freaked me out. In short order, it became clear to me: Hillary was never the leftist I thought she was. She was a centrist. Since I'm a proud lefty, this disappointed me and made me wonder how I'd been wrong all these years.
Once Hillary was elected to the Senate, I kept close track of her. Her early voting record made me throw up in my mouth a little bit. And then 9/11 hit, and the United States had a "WTF?!?" moment. For a good 3-4 years, our collective head was shoved quite firmly up our ass. But when she voted for the Iraq war, my time on Hillary's side came to a screeching halt. That was a deal-breaker for me. This woman who, for a long period in my life, was the epitome of feminism and progressive issues, fell from grace in my eyes. I think the reason that it was so gravely disappointing for me was because I really, truly believed in Hillary. And while there were very few senators who actually had the chutzpah to vote their conscience with regards to Iraq, I thought she would be one of them. At that moment, Hillary instantaneously morphed from beloved national figure to spineless hawk in the chaos that is my mind.
In the wide gap between 9/11 and the 2004 presidential election, I found something that I rely on to this day: alternative media. Thank you, oh thank you, internet! I no longer watch/listen to/have much regard for the mainstream media (referred to as "MSM" by alternative bloggers, independent papers, and international media alike) in this country and, as a direct result of getting information from other sources, I have since pieced together backstory about Hillary Clinton that sometimes makes me wince. It was quite disheartening at first, but it is what it is. Google is your friend, fellow Democrats, as is Salon, Common Dreams, The Huffington Post, etc. Anyway, my point is that I no longer have the '92 version/vision of Hillary Clinton roaming around my head.
I never understood John Kerry's appeal when he ran for Prez in '04. I was all, "Howard Dean! Howard Dean!", but then the MSM simply decided that Howard's speaking voice was a little too New England for them, and they quickly put an end to his race. But, ya know, what's the alternative here? That same fucking White House monkey for another 4 years? No, thank you. So I voted for Kerry. I was kinda mad about it, but I did it.
I distinctly remember the flavor of the '04 election: THIS IS OUR LAST CHANCE! LET'S NOT BLOW IT, DEMOCRATS! All of these celebrities were stumping for John Kerry because 4 more years of Bush seemed absolutely unthinkable then. We were all biting our nails and seething with the insistence of change. I recall that we were pretty nervous because, no matter how many of us liberals were shouting from the rafters about an illegal war and civil liberties being a thing of the past, the tide had not yet turned within America in general. The tide was still in George W. Bush's favor. The MSM was still falling in line behind him, and so were many of the folks of this insane, whacked-out country.
Of course, we all know what happened next, Scott McClellan. 3 1/2 more years of Dubya have crippled the United States beyond anything most of us could imagine. The reality of our horrible situation is almost too much to bear, at least for me. The fall of Rome has begun, and I think we would all be hard-pressed to find one single, solitary person who still believes that all is well in the land of Oz. Bush supporters could probably lie to themselves about the state of "the world's last remaining superpower" for quite awhile, but during the past year, it seems that the country has finally woken up. You can't go a day or two right now without hearing about some ultra-damning revelation, book, admission, article, etc. trashing Bush Co. For those of us not under the influence of the MSM, it is extremely liberating, albeit almost laughable and, sadly, concerningly belated. I just saw a headline yesterday on Yahoo! that said something like, "Report says White House manufactured Iraq intel". I thought, "Huh. Well, I'm so glad you finally figured that out! Welcome to the party! But, alas, you're 6 years too late, guys. I don't think we can bring back the millions of Iraqis we've killed, much less our own soldiers. Way to be on the ball there."
The pendulum is swinging our way. The tide is turning, but in our favor. This country finally feels alive again, and probably for the first time since 9/11. But I am really, really pissed off that it's taken everyone so long to catch up. Where the fuck have the rest of you been, ya know? We totally needed you, MSM! We totally needed you, doormat Democrats in Congress! We totally needed you, yes YOU, true Republicans!
But, Hillary supporters, you already know this. You totally know this! You've probably known it for years, just like me. So, alternative media or not, you Clintonistas are far from stupid. We're all Democrats here; we party like it's 1999! You are not part of the them in which I speak.
Unless you are now planning on voting for John McCain, simply because Hillary Clinton lost in the primaries. Because then you are exactly the them of which I speak.
OK, cough it up, hippie. Give me your pipe, your bong, your needle, and your rolled-up dollar bill, you filthy Democrat. I don't need to remind you not to piss in the goddamned Kool Aid, do I? Websites have been formed, letters sent, protests waged, and all in the name of bringing to life an ultra-fun, Democrat-led Anti-Barack Obama Movement. Fine. Hate him with a fiery vengeance, if you want. Blame Obama supporters for hating on Clinton supporters, blah blah blah. This is a circular argument that will illicit no sympathy from me, an Obama supporter, who is sick and tired of hearing bullshit spewed from the Clinton camp about Obama. To say that the Democrats are deeply divided is way too obvious. That's not the main focus of this letter.
The focus is thus: DO NOT PISS IN THE GODDAMNED KOOL AID! I don't know how you need to spank your inner moppet in order to get over the loss of Hillary Clinton not becoming the first female Democrat ever to challenge a Republican for the (sometimes, although not lately, esteemed) job of President of the United States of America. But just spank that inner moppet, OK? Spank away, Spanky! You have until November, which seems like ages away. I will help you in any way I can, although I won't do anything disgusting or dishonest. Or anything having to do with variations on the word "spank".
And don't vote for McCain. Please. PLEASE! We need you! Don't be that stupid! My 7-year-old doesn't get what she wants sometimes, and drama ensues only when she feels like employing it. But other times, she handles it like a champ and keeps right on truckin'. Or, in her case, making a very long caravan with her Polly Pocket dolls.
Sometimes she grumbles, but grudgingly gives in and does it anyway.
Think John Kerry. Get a mental image of him right now. Remember how long it took him to respond after he'd been Swift Boated. Did you like that dude? Yeah? Me neither. But we voted for him because we had to. If you can take down your anger several notches from rage to grumbling, that's all you need to do.
McCain is a complete asshole. Voting for him is the equivalent of putting an ex-boyfriend's naked picture up on MySpace or Craigslist. Why would you do that, except for revenge? Which, by the way, reflects very badly on you and your character. It's just not who you want to be, fellow Democrat. And I know so because you are a Democrat. We want the same things! Truth, justice, and the American way! Also, healthcare for all would be nice.
I saw Hillary's concession speech on CNN a little while ago. I was impressed, for what seems like the thousandth time, by her strength. She was gracious. She was feisty. And she asked her supporters to throw their weight behind Barack now that she's out of the race. The crowd, in equal parts, applauded and booed. It was a cringe-worthy moment.
So, to those of you who applauded, thank you! You rock 'n roll, and me and Prince want your address so we can come celebrate what is sure to be a massive failure by the Republican Hate Machine come November. We will throw confetti and drink champagne and dance the night away, baby.
And to those of you who booed: I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry that the press made a mockery of your woman, and I know that I would feel the exact same way if my candidate of choice had lost. I am not saying that to be condescending or mean, or to hurt you. I am saying that because it's true. Like millions of Americans, I feel like there is simply too much at stake in the upcoming presidential election to really wrap my mind around. We only have one more shot, peeps, and if we get it wrong, we are going down. Fast. To hell in a handbasket. And yes, I honestly believe that. I'm sure most of you do, too.
Please take all the time you need, but just make sure you spank your inner moppet by the first week of November. Bring your questions and concerns to the table, and I know that my dude will answer them, because he needs you. We need you. John McBush knows this, too, and he's going to try to bring as many of you as he can over to The Dark Side. Even though Darth Vader looked really cool in black, Obi-Wan Kenobi won in the end.
Use the force, Luke! You can totally do this. Even if you need to grumble.
So I deleted that one post ...
... about Meghan's step-mother because it was mean and I felt guilty. As it turns out, that particular post has kept me from blogging lately because:
1) I thought it showed incredibly poor form on my part. It is just not cool, what I said. This journal vs. blog thing is turning out to be a little difficult for me to figure out. I know I'm Ms. Annoying Anonymous, but sometimes less is more.
2) Seriously? Do I want to portray myself as Numero Uno Bitch on the internet? Do I really want to be the type of person who is all, "Oh, in deference to my craft, I must keep this unsent letter up for all of the world to read! It is part of the journey and everyone else be DAMNED!"? No, not especially. I would like to be sweet and smell like flowers.
On with the show.
1) I thought it showed incredibly poor form on my part. It is just not cool, what I said. This journal vs. blog thing is turning out to be a little difficult for me to figure out. I know I'm Ms. Annoying Anonymous, but sometimes less is more.
2) Seriously? Do I want to portray myself as Numero Uno Bitch on the internet? Do I really want to be the type of person who is all, "Oh, in deference to my craft, I must keep this unsent letter up for all of the world to read! It is part of the journey and everyone else be DAMNED!"? No, not especially. I would like to be sweet and smell like flowers.
On with the show.
May 19, 2008
Look out, Woody Allen
My neurons are really, super tired.
I don't know if this is by nature's design or by personal choice, but I am an over-analyzer. To the point of fucking brain exhaustion. Which is ironic, because that provides me with yet another bullet point on a very long, PowerPoint-ish list to consider and think about. I designed them templates all by myself, and they are quite pretty and charming. This self-analyzation is starting to seriously cripple my everyday life. I could attempt to explain that little tidbit of pertinent info in detail, but then I would get all tripped up by the hows and the whys, and I would end up as an immobile, filthy blob, lying in a pool of my own drool. I also happen to be something of an exaggerator (which is much different than a blatant liar by, like, 2 degrees), but please believe me when I say that I am lethargic. From thinking too much.
I wonder if there is some kind of mind-sharing program, whereby I can provide Republicans/Hell's Kitchen fans/Matchbox 20 enthusiasts with much-needed brain cells. They go up in IQ by nearly 20 points (thus rendering them liberal/having better taste) and I stop contemplating life so goddamned much. Win-win, baby. Although, even in this hypothetical, there is no cure for Asshole. I assert that punching (adult) people in the face would sometimes help.
Anyway. My point is that living inside my own head is extremely dangerous for a woman like me. Not only do I start examining every little thing people say or do in my presence, but I start thinking that I am some kind of Hippocampus Superhero (hey! Tim Kring! call me.): I not only attempt to read other people's minds, but I actually believe that I can. It is awesome, this ability. It causes others to become absolutely speechless around me, when I inform them of both what they are thinking and how they are feeling. Obviously, they immediately get down on their knees in front of me, kiss my feet, and worship me for the goddess that I am. Like, duh, all mere mortals should.
So, as any true goddess will admit, throwing in the towel when something clearly isn't working is the very definition of grace. (Side note: Hillary Clinton! Take the fucking hint already.) I hope to be graceful by, say, age 50. Instead, I am cleaning up my messed-up head, bit by bit. I am plotting a Course of Severe Action (CSA) to counteract my Hippocampus Superhero (HS) behavior, and I will slowly chip away at the CSA until I start seeing some results. I may write an ROI analysis at a later date, but I'll keep ya posted. I can only pray that my CSA leads to me some serious R & R (maybe on CL?), or at least for as long as SYTYCD is on. Essentially, the CSA is a chronological schedule of neurotic hopes and dreams. You know. To help me become less neurotic.
When a full-on genius in a white lab coat actually develops mind-sharing someday, I will totally be down with helping out the ignorant. But I will also submit a request for the scientist to leave my irony completely intact. I really love that shit.
I don't know if this is by nature's design or by personal choice, but I am an over-analyzer. To the point of fucking brain exhaustion. Which is ironic, because that provides me with yet another bullet point on a very long, PowerPoint-ish list to consider and think about. I designed them templates all by myself, and they are quite pretty and charming. This self-analyzation is starting to seriously cripple my everyday life. I could attempt to explain that little tidbit of pertinent info in detail, but then I would get all tripped up by the hows and the whys, and I would end up as an immobile, filthy blob, lying in a pool of my own drool. I also happen to be something of an exaggerator (which is much different than a blatant liar by, like, 2 degrees), but please believe me when I say that I am lethargic. From thinking too much.
I wonder if there is some kind of mind-sharing program, whereby I can provide Republicans/Hell's Kitchen fans/Matchbox 20 enthusiasts with much-needed brain cells. They go up in IQ by nearly 20 points (thus rendering them liberal/having better taste) and I stop contemplating life so goddamned much. Win-win, baby. Although, even in this hypothetical, there is no cure for Asshole. I assert that punching (adult) people in the face would sometimes help.
Anyway. My point is that living inside my own head is extremely dangerous for a woman like me. Not only do I start examining every little thing people say or do in my presence, but I start thinking that I am some kind of Hippocampus Superhero (hey! Tim Kring! call me.): I not only attempt to read other people's minds, but I actually believe that I can. It is awesome, this ability. It causes others to become absolutely speechless around me, when I inform them of both what they are thinking and how they are feeling. Obviously, they immediately get down on their knees in front of me, kiss my feet, and worship me for the goddess that I am. Like, duh, all mere mortals should.
So, as any true goddess will admit, throwing in the towel when something clearly isn't working is the very definition of grace. (Side note: Hillary Clinton! Take the fucking hint already.) I hope to be graceful by, say, age 50. Instead, I am cleaning up my messed-up head, bit by bit. I am plotting a Course of Severe Action (CSA) to counteract my Hippocampus Superhero (HS) behavior, and I will slowly chip away at the CSA until I start seeing some results. I may write an ROI analysis at a later date, but I'll keep ya posted. I can only pray that my CSA leads to me some serious R & R (maybe on CL?), or at least for as long as SYTYCD is on. Essentially, the CSA is a chronological schedule of neurotic hopes and dreams. You know. To help me become less neurotic.
When a full-on genius in a white lab coat actually develops mind-sharing someday, I will totally be down with helping out the ignorant. But I will also submit a request for the scientist to leave my irony completely intact. I really love that shit.
May 17, 2008
They grow up so fast
Tonight, while watching the movie Hitch on network television with Meghan. Will Smith has just walked out on Eva Mendes after their fight in the restaurant, leaving Eva to speed-date in peace.
Me: Don't worry, honey. It turns out OK.
Meghan: Oh, I know.
Me: You do?
Meghan: Sure. These kinds of movies always turn out OK. Well, except for Shakespeare.
Me: Don't worry, honey. It turns out OK.
Meghan: Oh, I know.
Me: You do?
Meghan: Sure. These kinds of movies always turn out OK. Well, except for Shakespeare.
May 15, 2008
Notes from the desk of crazy
Hi.
OK, so. I realize that my last post was more than a little harsh. And while there is a huge part of me that wants to just pull that puppy down, and stash it away in a dusty box containing ridiculous letters I wrote in 8th grade, I will not let myself do this. My thinking is that I am trying to find my blogging voice (which appears to be slightly different from my journaling voice), and while I am creating said voice, some of my posts are going to suck big hairy donkey balls, quite frankly. I don't want to mess with the process, so I won't.
That sounds incredibly self-serving and disingenuous, doesn't it? Oh, well. It is what it is, people.
I am in the mood for some non-structured thoughts, of the weird (and possibly derogatory) variety. Join me, won't you?
Yesterday, Barack Obama told a female reporter in Michigan to "Hold on a second, sweetie." Oh, Barry. Inward, disgusted groan inserted here. I know that the pressure cooker for your long-running and very public job interview just cranked up about 5 notches. I am sure that you haven't slept in a good 9 months. It is more than likely that you miss Michelle and the girls quite a bit. And, if nothing else, your wife is going to kick your ass for this more than the rest of us ever could. I have forgiven you for a wide array of bizarre shit you've said and done, but I am having a big problem with this one. My core issue is this: I thought you were a Democrat. Isn't that some bullshit line Rush Limbaugh would utter to his potential 4th wife?
If I listen to that new "4 Minutes" song by Madonna (featuring the awesomeness of both JT and Timbaland) one more time, I will be able to sing it, every word and nuance, loudly and verbatim. My booty-shaking has even morphed into some kind of Soul Train dance routine. I never really got into Madonna back in the day, but that woman is frickin' 49-years-old! Damn. She deserves some respect, yo. Word.
How cute is it when your daughter makes you a beautiful bracelet (complete with pretty beads of your favorite color) for Mother's Day? And how lame are you, if you can't actually put it on by yourself?
So You Think You Can Dance? starts one week from today! I am so very excited. Alright, calm your ass down, will you? Fine, laugh if you want. Chuckle. Guffaw. Cackle. ROTFLMAO, even, you have my full permission. But you are all dweebs! Dweebs, I say. Because dancing and dance movies can SAVE THE WORLD! They help us believe in ourselves, and our dreams, and inspire us to be better people. Also, the sweetness and sappiness that I have just spewed helps us to vomit in our trashcans.
At what amount of blood loss do you become anemic? I should probably research that kinda stuff. Sometimes, I really hate being a girl. Grr. Argh.
Hey! I am going to lose 30 pounds by August 31st! I have a plan and everything: starting June 1, I am going on a strict diet (OK, eating way less McDonald's and Taco Bell) and committing to work out at least 4 times per week. (Alright, maybe 3 times per week. Or two times. Or occasionally walking to the TV instead of using the remote.) I am going to lose a doctor-recommended and extremely healthy 10 pounds per month. My goal is to keep my face, which is fine enough, while obtaining Mariah Carey's body, which is more than luscious. I feel that my plan is foolproof. Wait, what the hell do you mean that didn't work out so well for Oprah?
On the whole, I think we can all agree that cheerleaders are evil. Even though Meghan will be attending cheerleading camp in less than a month, I will keep my feelings to myself. I will keep my feelings to myself, Self. Got that? Also, stop renting her Bring It On from Blockbuster, because you are only encouraging this disgustingly girly obsession with the pom pons.
Is there some kind of text messaging class older folk (read: no longer 25) can take to catch up to Generation Y? I would be laughed right out of Starbucks with my lack of game, Holmes. Well, if I could actually afford to go to Starbucks, that is.
Speaking of being broke, the last two times I filled up my car with gas, I received looks of pity and words of sympathy from the cashiers. As it turns out, $5.00 doesn't get you very far these days. And that is why I firmly believe that George W. Bush sucks big hairy donkey balls, but I suppose that goes without saying.
OK, so. I realize that my last post was more than a little harsh. And while there is a huge part of me that wants to just pull that puppy down, and stash it away in a dusty box containing ridiculous letters I wrote in 8th grade, I will not let myself do this. My thinking is that I am trying to find my blogging voice (which appears to be slightly different from my journaling voice), and while I am creating said voice, some of my posts are going to suck big hairy donkey balls, quite frankly. I don't want to mess with the process, so I won't.
That sounds incredibly self-serving and disingenuous, doesn't it? Oh, well. It is what it is, people.
I am in the mood for some non-structured thoughts, of the weird (and possibly derogatory) variety. Join me, won't you?
Yesterday, Barack Obama told a female reporter in Michigan to "Hold on a second, sweetie." Oh, Barry. Inward, disgusted groan inserted here. I know that the pressure cooker for your long-running and very public job interview just cranked up about 5 notches. I am sure that you haven't slept in a good 9 months. It is more than likely that you miss Michelle and the girls quite a bit. And, if nothing else, your wife is going to kick your ass for this more than the rest of us ever could. I have forgiven you for a wide array of bizarre shit you've said and done, but I am having a big problem with this one. My core issue is this: I thought you were a Democrat. Isn't that some bullshit line Rush Limbaugh would utter to his potential 4th wife?
If I listen to that new "4 Minutes" song by Madonna (featuring the awesomeness of both JT and Timbaland) one more time, I will be able to sing it, every word and nuance, loudly and verbatim. My booty-shaking has even morphed into some kind of Soul Train dance routine. I never really got into Madonna back in the day, but that woman is frickin' 49-years-old! Damn. She deserves some respect, yo. Word.
How cute is it when your daughter makes you a beautiful bracelet (complete with pretty beads of your favorite color) for Mother's Day? And how lame are you, if you can't actually put it on by yourself?
So You Think You Can Dance? starts one week from today! I am so very excited. Alright, calm your ass down, will you? Fine, laugh if you want. Chuckle. Guffaw. Cackle. ROTFLMAO, even, you have my full permission. But you are all dweebs! Dweebs, I say. Because dancing and dance movies can SAVE THE WORLD! They help us believe in ourselves, and our dreams, and inspire us to be better people. Also, the sweetness and sappiness that I have just spewed helps us to vomit in our trashcans.
At what amount of blood loss do you become anemic? I should probably research that kinda stuff. Sometimes, I really hate being a girl. Grr. Argh.
Hey! I am going to lose 30 pounds by August 31st! I have a plan and everything: starting June 1, I am going on a strict diet (OK, eating way less McDonald's and Taco Bell) and committing to work out at least 4 times per week. (Alright, maybe 3 times per week. Or two times. Or occasionally walking to the TV instead of using the remote.) I am going to lose a doctor-recommended and extremely healthy 10 pounds per month. My goal is to keep my face, which is fine enough, while obtaining Mariah Carey's body, which is more than luscious. I feel that my plan is foolproof. Wait, what the hell do you mean that didn't work out so well for Oprah?
On the whole, I think we can all agree that cheerleaders are evil. Even though Meghan will be attending cheerleading camp in less than a month, I will keep my feelings to myself. I will keep my feelings to myself, Self. Got that? Also, stop renting her Bring It On from Blockbuster, because you are only encouraging this disgustingly girly obsession with the pom pons.
Is there some kind of text messaging class older folk (read: no longer 25) can take to catch up to Generation Y? I would be laughed right out of Starbucks with my lack of game, Holmes. Well, if I could actually afford to go to Starbucks, that is.
Speaking of being broke, the last two times I filled up my car with gas, I received looks of pity and words of sympathy from the cashiers. As it turns out, $5.00 doesn't get you very far these days. And that is why I firmly believe that George W. Bush sucks big hairy donkey balls, but I suppose that goes without saying.
May 4, 2008
Frontin'
I've been seriously mulling over what to call my family and friends on this here blog. I made up a whole list of possible pseudonyms, but not many of them seemed to capture the vibe I get when I think about the real, live person attached to the fake name. However, my daughter's moniker was easy to come up with: Meghan. My kid is totally a Meghan, through and through. In fact, "Meghan" was on the short list of names that my ex-husband and I considered before our child up and popped out. In the end, though, I'm hella glad that we went with another name. Because it made such an insightful and polarizing difference in the way my daughter acts on a daily basis.
Clearly, I find this name to be very girly and pretty, and I like the ring it has when it rolls off my tongue. MEG-han. Huh. MEG-han. Say it out loud, people. (You know you want to. Don't play games with me.) That just sounds so strong and bold and classic and flowery and, ya know, fucking Irish, dude. This is a name that exudes confidence and simplicity and wisdom and Summa Cum Laude from Harvard, 3.95 GPA. It's a name that says, "Take me seriously, world! Hear what I have to say!" Any Meghan is a leader and a feminist and ... I'm sorry, what did you say? What was that about those cheerleading, high school bitches you knew named Meghan?
No offense to any Meghans that happen to be reading this blog (I know of only one, and she doesn't even spell it this way), but I think the very name Meghan sounds just like "punk-ass snot-nose". Call me a fruitcake if you want to (because you would not be the first), but certain words have definitive energy attached to them. They can conjure up vivid mental images or remind you of a long-lost friend, for example. And they can make you weirdly and irrationally emotional, sometimes for no reason at all. For me, Meghan is one of those names. Dunno why.
Of course, this is not at all to say that I do not adore my child. I absolutely and whole-heartedly do, and my anonymous band of peeps can attest to this. I put most of my time and energy into mothering my daughter, and I think that I am moderately to mostly successful in my attempts to turn my once innocent, squishy little baby into a decent and respectful adult member of society. Meghan is sweet and smart and interesting and thought-provoking and seriously funny as fuck. That kid slays me with her wit.
But she's also 7. And I did not realize this previously, but 7 is apparently the gateway drug to backtalk, not listening, and general tween annoyance with the parental units.
Meghan's friend is over at our house right now (we'll call her ... Alice), and do you know what? Blatant disdain for your mother, especially while your friends are present, is not just reserved for years 13-18. The 13-18 subset of the general population does not hold any patents on the following pre-teen behavior: eye rolling, loud sighing, being petty, being materialistic, thinking your parents are totally stupid, and exagerrating for dramatic/comedic effect. In short, Meghan is frontin' for her homie.
Ah, yes. I remember those days well. And since I remember those days well, I've tried to talk to Meghan about this (when her friends are not in earshot) and at least relate some of what I've learned. I also wanted to gauge where she was in the whole "hating your parents" process, in order to (duh) change her balls-out rude behavior. But since it was made clear to me that I have only been alive since she was born, and I have only experienced what she's experienced (nothing more and nothing less), I am of no help or use. I'm just this chick who lives in her house, and my services are only important when childhood logistics come into play. I am a severely, SEVERELY underpaid maid.
And ya know what pisses me off most of all? The fact that the apple does not fall far from the tree. My child is exactly like me. Fuckin' UGH, man. UGH!
Clearly, I find this name to be very girly and pretty, and I like the ring it has when it rolls off my tongue. MEG-han. Huh. MEG-han. Say it out loud, people. (You know you want to. Don't play games with me.) That just sounds so strong and bold and classic and flowery and, ya know, fucking Irish, dude. This is a name that exudes confidence and simplicity and wisdom and Summa Cum Laude from Harvard, 3.95 GPA. It's a name that says, "Take me seriously, world! Hear what I have to say!" Any Meghan is a leader and a feminist and ... I'm sorry, what did you say? What was that about those cheerleading, high school bitches you knew named Meghan?
No offense to any Meghans that happen to be reading this blog (I know of only one, and she doesn't even spell it this way), but I think the very name Meghan sounds just like "punk-ass snot-nose". Call me a fruitcake if you want to (because you would not be the first), but certain words have definitive energy attached to them. They can conjure up vivid mental images or remind you of a long-lost friend, for example. And they can make you weirdly and irrationally emotional, sometimes for no reason at all. For me, Meghan is one of those names. Dunno why.
Of course, this is not at all to say that I do not adore my child. I absolutely and whole-heartedly do, and my anonymous band of peeps can attest to this. I put most of my time and energy into mothering my daughter, and I think that I am moderately to mostly successful in my attempts to turn my once innocent, squishy little baby into a decent and respectful adult member of society. Meghan is sweet and smart and interesting and thought-provoking and seriously funny as fuck. That kid slays me with her wit.
But she's also 7. And I did not realize this previously, but 7 is apparently the gateway drug to backtalk, not listening, and general tween annoyance with the parental units.
Meghan's friend is over at our house right now (we'll call her ... Alice), and do you know what? Blatant disdain for your mother, especially while your friends are present, is not just reserved for years 13-18. The 13-18 subset of the general population does not hold any patents on the following pre-teen behavior: eye rolling, loud sighing, being petty, being materialistic, thinking your parents are totally stupid, and exagerrating for dramatic/comedic effect. In short, Meghan is frontin' for her homie.
Ah, yes. I remember those days well. And since I remember those days well, I've tried to talk to Meghan about this (when her friends are not in earshot) and at least relate some of what I've learned. I also wanted to gauge where she was in the whole "hating your parents" process, in order to (duh) change her balls-out rude behavior. But since it was made clear to me that I have only been alive since she was born, and I have only experienced what she's experienced (nothing more and nothing less), I am of no help or use. I'm just this chick who lives in her house, and my services are only important when childhood logistics come into play. I am a severely, SEVERELY underpaid maid.
And ya know what pisses me off most of all? The fact that the apple does not fall far from the tree. My child is exactly like me. Fuckin' UGH, man. UGH!
April 30, 2008
Dear Jeremiah Wright
Dear Dr. Wright:
Really? I mean, really?! Seriously, dude?!? How does one seemingly innocuous, older gentleman get his head stuck that far up his ass? That's gotta hurt or, at the very least, take some major talent on your part. I don't need or even want to know about that kind of creativity. You are in a league all your own, man, and the details are unbecoming.
Listen, Barack is my main squeeze. I fell in love with his half-black ass when I saw the speech he gave at the 2004 Democratic National Convention, when lefties like me nominated that complete and useless tool, John Kerry. Quite frankly, until Barack Obama came along, I didn't even know that it was possible to feel some kind of naive hope for a politician. There is no question abounding here for Barack's supporters: Obama's unique brand of intelligence, charisma, and normalcy are propelling us usually jaded Americans into actually believing that someone with a relatively good heart (and, more importantly, a bona fide soul) can occupy the White House. Granted, this knock-down, drag-out between Obama and Hillary Clinton is pissing most of us off at this point, but we're in the middle of a historically significant race here, and many of us still think that this awesome guy can become the next President of the United States.
So why the hell are you intentionally fucking it up? What, the man doesn't have enough problems as it is? The way you play it, John McCain, Karl Rove, and the idiot press machine are simply kindling to the big ass bonfire you got goin' there. Hell, you might as well throw on some gasoline and Bill Clinton's racism card while you're at it. Also, not to be glib, but Michelle Obama is going to kick his ass if Barack starts smoking cigarettes again, and I'm sure you're making that increasingly more difficult by the hour.
I don't care about the speeches that you've given in the past. I got bored one day and researched most of the full transcripts of those "troubling" sermons that the media went all ape shit over (I have this mental image of Diane Sawyer texting Wolf Blitzer, and they're both all, OMFG!) and, I gotta say, I agree with you a good 80% of the time. Most of the stuff you said was dead-on, but I believe you have a slight anger management problem, mixed in with some fun delusional tendencies. Still, we all have our faults, and you are certainly entitled to your own opinion. Much to George W. Bush's chagrin, there is some free speech left in this country yet. So, ya know. You were just fine and dandy with me, even as late as last week.
But then you had to go and shout "Fire!" in a crowded theater, for no good reason. Wtf is that about? We were all sitting there watching the movie, and you're flailing around and causing a scene as if you can see some wicked flames, when the rest of can't even smell the smoke anymore. This, and this alone, makes me really, really not like you.
I have three theories about why you did this, and why you did it now:
1) Retirement is very boring for you.
2) You have some mental health issues.
3) Your ego is as huge as the motherfucking Grand Canyon.
Out of the three possible reasons why, I'm going with #3, with a bit of #1 and #2 thrown in for good measure. Sir, as a man of God, you must have heard somewhere down the line that EGO stands for Edging God Out. So, I implore you now, because Barack Obama's candidacy for president might (quite literally) depend upon it: get the hell out of the driver's seat and let the Big Man Upstairs drive the goddamned bus. You're swerving all over the road, you're about to crash, and the passengers in the back are frightened as all hell.
Thank you.
Very Sincerely,
A Middle-Aged White Woman in Colorado Who's Clearly Sick of Your Bullshit
Really? I mean, really?! Seriously, dude?!? How does one seemingly innocuous, older gentleman get his head stuck that far up his ass? That's gotta hurt or, at the very least, take some major talent on your part. I don't need or even want to know about that kind of creativity. You are in a league all your own, man, and the details are unbecoming.
Listen, Barack is my main squeeze. I fell in love with his half-black ass when I saw the speech he gave at the 2004 Democratic National Convention, when lefties like me nominated that complete and useless tool, John Kerry. Quite frankly, until Barack Obama came along, I didn't even know that it was possible to feel some kind of naive hope for a politician. There is no question abounding here for Barack's supporters: Obama's unique brand of intelligence, charisma, and normalcy are propelling us usually jaded Americans into actually believing that someone with a relatively good heart (and, more importantly, a bona fide soul) can occupy the White House. Granted, this knock-down, drag-out between Obama and Hillary Clinton is pissing most of us off at this point, but we're in the middle of a historically significant race here, and many of us still think that this awesome guy can become the next President of the United States.
So why the hell are you intentionally fucking it up? What, the man doesn't have enough problems as it is? The way you play it, John McCain, Karl Rove, and the idiot press machine are simply kindling to the big ass bonfire you got goin' there. Hell, you might as well throw on some gasoline and Bill Clinton's racism card while you're at it. Also, not to be glib, but Michelle Obama is going to kick his ass if Barack starts smoking cigarettes again, and I'm sure you're making that increasingly more difficult by the hour.
I don't care about the speeches that you've given in the past. I got bored one day and researched most of the full transcripts of those "troubling" sermons that the media went all ape shit over (I have this mental image of Diane Sawyer texting Wolf Blitzer, and they're both all, OMFG!) and, I gotta say, I agree with you a good 80% of the time. Most of the stuff you said was dead-on, but I believe you have a slight anger management problem, mixed in with some fun delusional tendencies. Still, we all have our faults, and you are certainly entitled to your own opinion. Much to George W. Bush's chagrin, there is some free speech left in this country yet. So, ya know. You were just fine and dandy with me, even as late as last week.
But then you had to go and shout "Fire!" in a crowded theater, for no good reason. Wtf is that about? We were all sitting there watching the movie, and you're flailing around and causing a scene as if you can see some wicked flames, when the rest of can't even smell the smoke anymore. This, and this alone, makes me really, really not like you.
I have three theories about why you did this, and why you did it now:
1) Retirement is very boring for you.
2) You have some mental health issues.
3) Your ego is as huge as the motherfucking Grand Canyon.
Out of the three possible reasons why, I'm going with #3, with a bit of #1 and #2 thrown in for good measure. Sir, as a man of God, you must have heard somewhere down the line that EGO stands for Edging God Out. So, I implore you now, because Barack Obama's candidacy for president might (quite literally) depend upon it: get the hell out of the driver's seat and let the Big Man Upstairs drive the goddamned bus. You're swerving all over the road, you're about to crash, and the passengers in the back are frightened as all hell.
Thank you.
Very Sincerely,
A Middle-Aged White Woman in Colorado Who's Clearly Sick of Your Bullshit
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